


We Dance Among the Earth and Stars

by ShyTortise



Series: The Same Coin [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Companion Piece, I am bad at writing Crowley, If I never have to type Aziraphale again it will be too soon, M/M, Mentions of scars and burns, crowley is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyTortise/pseuds/ShyTortise
Summary: Crowley may not know how Heaven works, he may not even know himself, but he knows Aziraphale.





	We Dance Among the Earth and Stars

Crowley isn’t _ stupid _. He knows Aziraphale is afraid. Though he has no fucking clue of what. As the bastard is so fond of reminding him he’s an Angel, therefore blessed and holy and always in the right. 

What’s there to be scared of if you’re right?

Unless you think you might not be.

He watches closer after the 60’s. Regretting his hasty reaction to Aziraphale’s use of the word ‘fraternize’ way back when. He notices the quick side glances, the way those lovely blue eyes dart right, then up, and how he tries to smooth his lapels as if that will hide the glance over his shoulder.

It occurs to him that maybe Aziraphale is afraid that being with Crowley is wrong. 

He throws that possibility away almost immediately. If the angel were that scared of being caught with him then he wouldn’t accept all the invitations. Maybe it’s the apocalypse.

“I’m saying, you could kill him.” It’s a reasonable option! One life for the whole bloody world, the whole _ universe _ maybe. But the look on Aziraphale’s face is...he doesn’t like it.

“I’ve never killed anyone.” Oh that’s a lie and they both know it, maybe Aziraphale has never held the dagger or the poison vial but he’s stood by while those ‘policy decisions’ get made. Crowley remembers those children playing before the flooding of the world and that Ark nonsense. He remembers Jesus and those fed to the lions.

He decides to press.

“One life, for the entire world.” The look doesn’t get better. He feels like he’s pulling his own teeth. Aziraphale swallows and the way he looks at Warlock makes Crowley want to gag. There’s a wrenching sensation in his gut and he lets the topic drop, bitter that the angel wants to keep his holy hands clean of blood but will use them for his mortifying ‘magic tricks’. 

At least Aziraphale doesn’t look so tense anymore.

*

He can’t believe they got the wrong Antichrist. Eleven years of perfectly placed temptation and evil thoughts, balanced out by Aziraphale and his ridiculous gardener facade; all for nothing!

So maybe he’s a little more dangerous with his troublemaking, he needs Hell to think he’s still keeping up the trouble while he’s scrambling to find the damned SPAWN OF SA-

“I’ve always known that deep down, you really are a nice-”

That’s the last straw, he whips around to grab the damned old jacket that he’s just miracled clean and slams Aziraphale against the wall, hoping for a flash of fear and respect, but there’s just...mild surprise. He leans in close hissing that he’s never been nice but those lovely eyes just stare at him as if they can see through to his true being and he’s almost relieved when the human interrupts.

*

Aziraphale loves books, calls them the physical representation of history and imagination and progress. As if nothing else humans invented could be that. Crowley watches him practically run back into his shop as if Gabriel were stalking after him.

“It’s tickety-boo!” There’s too much anticipation in his voice for it to be real fear that's making his angel so jittery.

“Tickety-boo?” Can he even hear himself? He sounds like the fop the humans accuse him of being. As if either of them fit into such strange and restrictive human labels. 

“Mind how you go!” The door shuts and the click of the lock floats across the street, tugging a small smirk out of the demon.

“Well, that was a thing.” He must have been looking for that book. Maybe Crowley can put ‘led Angel to theft’ on his next report, because the girl won’t be getting it back. He recognizes that covetous look. He’s been seeing it every time he brings by a Bible misprint as a gift...bribe! As a _ bribe _ for future favors. He slides into the Bentley, ignoring the grin spreading across his face. “Tickety-boo.”

He’s never going to let Aziraphale forget this.

*

He’s never going to forget this. 

All the wine in the world can’t get the taste of the smoke out of his mouth. 

He’d expected Aziraphale to be fluttering between the shelves, the fire some kind of ruse to keep the humans out, or maybe draw them to the shop, force the angels cornering him to fuck off.

Crowley refuses to examine why he thinks he’d need to save Aziraphale from other angels. That’s not the point.

He demands another bottle, overriding the bartender’s concern with irritation so he gets a cheaper year, set a little less carefully on the table. He can almost imagine the angel’s soft ‘oh I say’ at the rude gesture, and without thinking he’s almost miracled up a happy coincidence to counter the annoyance for the human; before he remembers the world is ending. And Aziraphale isn’t here to see it anyways.

Then, suddenly he is. 

Crowley can’t focus on the conversation, he’s drunk and his corporation is doing something that feels an awful lot like dying, the heart pounding as his throat catches, the lungs refusing to draw breath properly. He barely thinks as he thrusts the book towards the smokey figure of his best friend, his only friend, the one being he wants to be happy more than anything.

“I took it! S’a souvenir!” He’s already fumbling through it to find the notes when Aziraphale says something even more ridiculous than ‘tickety-boo’. “What?”

“Tadfield! Air Base!”

“No I got _ that _ part it was the ‘get a wiggle on’.” He wants to ask if it’s because he’s a snake, but the chair in front of him is empty. His mouth tastes of too much wine and hard water from the hose. He sobers himself up and stalks out of the bar.

They’ve got a world to save.

*

“Yes, yes I understand that it’s the Great Plan, but is it part of the...you know, Ineffable Plan?” Crowely wonders if Gabriel will give him a reason to break those stupidly large hands by trying to wrap them around Aziraphale’s throat; Beezlebub looks about ready to drown them both in flies...but they’re hesitating and suddenly the angel’s plan, brilliant bastard that he is, dawns on him.

“You don’t _ know _!” It feels better, more right to be standing next to his angel now that he’s back in his own body. The human woman wasn’t a bad fit, but he’s always liked the soft round look better on Aziraphale. 

*

He slides his fingers between Aziraphale’s, holding the soft hand firmly. He’s not letting go, the angel will probably run off in a panic if he does. The rumble of the bus fades to a whisper and Crowley finds himself slouching, then leaning his head on a comfortable shoulder.

He knows what his angel smells like, even under the new cologne. He smells like rain in a garden, or sunlight in a library. Not that Crowley has ever set foot in a library of his own free will.

He shifts and takes up more of the bench, ignoring the angel's soft huff as he closes his eyes.

*

“I feel a right twat.” Crowley tries to roll the jacket sleeves up. “It’s too many layers Aziraphale, and none of them mesh well.” There’s the jacket, the vest, the shirt the undershirt...honestly it’s a small miracle in itself that only the bowtie is tartan. 

“Well my dear, imagine my feelings. I haven’t worn anything this tight since hose went out of fashion.” He catches sight of the angel in the mirror, watching as Aziraphale slides his hands down the leather clinging to the narrow hips, humming softly and digging into them with his dark painted nails. Crowley finds he can’t look away, almost surprised to see his old face looking sheepish as gold eyes meet the ones he’s now looking through. “Ah sorry.” Aziraphale takes his hands away and clears his throat,looking around for go- sa- someone only knows what.

Crowley manages to find his voice, pleased that it doesn’t come out as raspy as his throat feels. “Hose was never _ in _ fashion angel. It was just to make calves more appealing. As if they needed the help.” Aziraphale’s never had. But he’d always worn hose well, the roman sandals too, Crowley had made sure the style was just a bit tight. Anything to dig into that inviting softness just a smidge. He grabs a handful of blond hair to get rid of the thoughts fogging up his brain, wincing as the body’s skin pulls and aches in a strange way.

“And you’re sore. What did you do? Wrestle the damn scooter into submission?”

Aziraphale finds what he’s looking for and puts the sunglasses on, Crowley discovers that the barrier between them irritates him now. “Something of the sort. Just leave it alone it’ll heal well enough.”

It occurs to Crowley later, much later, that Aziraphale never touched the scooter in his own body.

*

Heaven is...not at all like he remembers. 

The light is there, the brightness so sharp it’s almost painful, but there’s no real warmth. Aziraphle’s insistence on layers makes sense now. Crowley tilts his head to the side as he’s led down corridor after featureless corridor. There’s a choir in the distance, if he strains he can almost hear them, but no one else seems to be paying the least bit of attention to the music. 

There’s lines for paperwork, just like Hell, except they’re neat, orderly...and no one is talking. No one complains, or even makes small talk. It’s quiet and cold.

Not like Aziraphale.

He grunts as he’s pushed into a chair, the heavenly rope tightened around his wrists as they list his supposed crimes. They stare at him expectantly and he does his best to look like Aziraphale would, contrite, a little guilty, but stubbornly convinced that he did the right thing. He can tell it’s not what they want, he’s been tempting humans for millennia and these Angels want something that Crowley isn’t giving them.

He recognizes the demon they bring in to light the hellfire. One of Hastur’s. It feels appropriate somehow. He manages to say something like his angel would, about the greater good, only to find himself cut off. The moniker ‘sunshine’ feels wrong, less than all Aziraphale is. He’s a Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, not some two bit envoy.

“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already.” Gabriel gives him a tight insincere smile.

Crowley feels the anger burn in his chest. How dare some smarmy archangel talk to Aziraphale like that? He wants to punch the smug face until it discorporates, but he’s not himself right now. He swallows the rage down, remembering his own words. 

‘You’re so clever, how can someone as clever as you be so _ stupid _’. 

Had he sounded like Gabriel? 

Was that why Aziraphale had looked so shattered when he’d replied ‘I forgive you’?

He steps into the pillar of hellfire and relaxes as he realizes his angel’s plan has worked. It feels like the sauna back when they’d gone to Amsterdam only to discover neither of them were really needed. He cracks the body’s neck, the way he’s seen Aziraphale do and smiles at the terrified looks the three archangels are giving him.

He can’t resist, it’s not in him to just let it go. He takes a breath and blows a stream of hellfire out towards them, just enough for a scare.

*

They have a rather surprised angel escort him out. “Uh, I’ve been instructed to give this to you sir.” She hands him an envelope...with no flap to open it.

“What is it?” Crowley is curious but he’s more eager to get back to Earth, to Aziraphale. “And who from?”

“I don’t ask questions sir.”

He does his best not to roll his eyes, managing a small tight smile as he shoves it into a jacket pocket. “Of course you don’t.” He steps onto the escalator and gives her a small wave. “Ciao.” 

She blinks and waves back. “Have a blessed day.” That makes his skin itch, but he keeps from scratching until he’s out of sight of the front desk.

*

It’s strange to feel leftover bits of Aziraphale inside his body, but Crowley enjoys finding them, seeking them out like he’s hunting down priceless treasure. He can taste the bubbles in the champagne at the Ritz, and he’s certain that the giddy thumping of his corporation’s heart is all the angel’s fault. He feels warmer too, but he puts that down to Earth. At least until Aziraphale invites him back to the Bookshop.

He can feel the difference immediately. This was what he’d expected Heaven to be like. Warm, welcoming, full of love and old things whose only value was their age. And yet he feels more love in this one shop than he felt in the entirety of Heaven, which hadn’t been so much different than Hell honestly.

That thought agitates him and he prowls around the shelves. 

“What’s the matter Crowley?”

“Just wondering if you’d noticed anything missing.” He pauses to take in the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, trying not to scowl. As if Aziraphale were so watered down. ‘Sunshine’ bah. He’s going to find some way to give the big bastard food poisoning, even if the asshole doesn’t eat.

“No, actually I’m surprised Adam managed to restore everything. Even my poetry collection!” 

“And he brought it all back? That’s a shame.” He sidles around the shelves, watching the angel putter around from the corner of his eye. 

“You can’t still be irritated with Wordsworth.”

Crowley makes sure he slides his sunglasses down far enough so Aziraphale can see him rolling his eyes as he hops up to sit on the counter, not caring about the papers he’s scattering. “Yes I can. Man was an absolute prat. Fine, go be out in nature but stop being so damned fatalistic about it all.” He can see those perfectly cared for fingers caressing the new books the Antichrist had willed into his store. Soft finger pads trailing along their title and author before Aziraphale slides them carefully onto a shelf that realistically shouldn’t have any more room.

He’s not jealous of the attention the blond is paying the stupid paper stacks.

He’s not.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look away from the shelves, but Crowley feels the warmth around him grow as the angel’s attention turns to him. “Yes dear?” Crowley feels the revelation unfold inside of him.

Six thousand years worth of warmth that never faded, even when he felt as if the words ‘there is no our side’ could turn him to ice.

Warmth he didn’t feel in Heaven, not even in the fires of Hell.

He manages to get his sunglasses off without dropping them, willing himself to look past the blinding light of Aziraphale’s innate goodness, and what he sees there makes him glad he’s already sitting down. “Aziraphale.” This time his voice is thick with all the emotion he’s ever denied having, because he’s realizing that his angel loves him; and not just in the irritating way angels supposedly love everything because he’s felt that now. It’s as weak as water next to the absinthe of the love of the being in front of him. Aziraphale’s head snaps around and his breath hitches in a way that makes the demon’s soul shake with longing. 

“...Crowley.” It’s intoxicating, the way Aziraphale says his name, like he’s rolling his favorite wine along his tongue, unwilling to lose a drop. He wants to press the angel against the shelves, sink into him and make that heavenly voice sing his praises, but he has to be careful. He hasn’t stopped the blessed end of the world to scare Aziraphale off now.

He knows Aziraphale likes his hands, so he curls one finger in a come-hither manner, watching intently as his angel slowly comes closer...closer. Then he’s in arm’s reach looking hesitant and delectable. Crowley’s words die unspoken as Aziraphale licks his lips. He can’t be having that. Those lips are where _ his _ tongue belongs. He grabs the angel’s hips, a shiver running through him at the lovely feel of them, soft and pliant as Crowley pulls him between his legs, flush against the counter.

“Crowley-” He doesn’t want to hear the words, he wants to taste them. He dives into exploring Aziraphale’s mouth, the warmth and sweetness that is his alone. Gentle fingers tangle in his hair and the demon can’t resist his urge to taste more, to claim it all. He forces himself away from the succulent mouth and leaves his mark on the pale column of throat that he can reach above that stupid, lovely tartan collar. 

“Don’t tell me I’m goin’ too fast angel._ Please _…” He’s not going to feel ashamed of begging, not for this, because he can’t stop. If Aziraphale makes him, the loss of the angel’s heat will ruin him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it my darling.” Darling, he likes that more than dear, but he doesn’t get a chance to say so because his hair is being tugged, it feels amazing, and Aziraphale is kissing him. It’s like the creation of the universe, the push and pull, air they don’t need, sparks that flare behind his eyes as he tries to consume the angel’s essence.

He wants more, _ needs _ more. He miracles away the stuffy vest and shirt so he can feel more that lovely delicious skin, only to find himself jerked forward as Aziraphale tries to pull away. He keeps his hold on the angel’s hips and frowns looking to see what the hell has him so spooked.

“What the fuck.” Lines in a language he hasn’t seen since the B.C. era, burned into the skin, red and silver welts of curling script that wind around Aziraphale like chains. His fingers dig into the angel’s hips to keep him still, to keep his rage in check. He can feel his tongue splitting at the end, scales rippling along his spine. “Who did this?” 

“It’s not important-!” Crowley hisses and leans down to press his teeth to Aziraphale’s throat, letting him know just who is in charge. He will tolerate no deflections, not now, not here. Not when he’s finally basking in the love he’s searched for longer than mankind has been a species instead of a specimen.

“No angel, you tell me who did this.” He slides his hands up carefully, trailing along the words to try and read them. He’d known Enochian once, then promptly forgot it after Babel made life so much more interesting. “Tell me.” Crowley connects the letters slowly. T. R.A.I.T.O.

Oh.

“I told you...reprimands.” He doesn’t want to think about it, all the times he’s poked fun at Aziraphale for being worried about sternly worded notes when in reality...He snarls and kisses his angel again, deep enough to fill every unthinking wound he’s left on the shining soul in his arms. He can feel Aziraphale’s essence swirling and dancing around them and he pushes his own out to fill the gaps between atoms as they mesh and twine together. He can feel the rush of exhilaration as large white wings come into existence with a snap, spread to help his dearest angel keep his balance.

“Crowley...oh yes Crowley!” 

“That’s right Aziraphale, you’re so lovely...so sweet…” His own wings span out behind him and he knocks something over, he doesn’t care, keeping his angel from scolding him for it by wrapping them around the lovely soft being he’s finally realized he always wanted to catch. “Mine now. No one’ll touch you again, my word on it angel.” 

*

The envelope is mocking him. He knows he left it Aziraphale’s coat, but it’s on the pillow now, shining with damned Heavenly Light.

“Angel, do something about this will you?” He buries his face in Aziraphale’s stomach, so soft and warm and inviting. Better than the blessed thing radiating heaven’s chill.

“You know, after all that I’m not sure I can remember how to move…” He snorts and drags his nails playfully up one plump thigh, grinning at the startled whine it gets him.

“I’m sure it’ll come to you. Besides once that’s out of the way we can pop off to that lovely Swiss place for breakfast.” He’s not curious to know what’s in it. He just wants it gone so he can get rid of the tension that’s seeping back into Aziraphale’s limbs. He grunts unhappily as the angel sits up, yelping as a blinding flash of holy light fills the room.

**Forgive And Love Thyself As I Love You.**

“What kind of fucking-” Crowley can’t finish the sentence, because the scars on his angel are healed and faded, tears leaking from wide blue eyes and he pushes himself up, nearly frantic. “Angel what’s the matter?” He doesn’t need to ask who it was, no one else sounds like that.

“I...I don’t know I just...I haven’t heard anything for so long, not since the garden and...and I thought maybe I’d been a disappointment but She still loves me…” Crowley makes a face.

“I love you more.”

“Of course you do. You’re my Soulmate, not my creator.” Aziraphale sniffs in that prim way that always makes Crowley want to do something to completely undo him...and now he has a whole host of ideas. He slides up the lovely curves of the angel’s stomach and chest, licking the tears off cheeks that turn bright red.

There, flustered is a better look on that gorgeous face.

“Change of plans, we’re skipping breakfast.” He’s sure the angel will forgive him, and if he’s still pouting by the time Crowley has finished wiping every thought of that message from his mind, well...there will be a table open at the Ritz, like always.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure it didn't come across, but like I said in Aziraphale's side I'm tired of thinking about it, so: The burns were Aziraphale unknowingly punishing himself for his own perceived sins. He thinks he has to be perfect, so when he isn't he does the angelic version of self flagellation without realizing it. Hence God's message to love and forgive himself as he is loved and forgiven.  
EDIT: More Format fixes, sorry.


End file.
